


(Wishing To Be) The Friction in Your Jeans

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-06
Updated: 2010-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 16:10:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The road to sex is paved with water balloons, pratfalls, potholes, and mosh pits.  Who knew?</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Wishing To Be) The Friction in Your Jeans

**TITLE:** (Wishing To Be) The Friction in Your Jeans  
**WORD COUNT:** 4,750-ish  
**RATING:** Hard R  
**SUMMARY: ** The road to sex is paved with water balloons, pratfalls, potholes, and mosh pits. Who knew?  
**WRITTEN FOR THE PROMPT: **"Accidental sexytimes."  


~

Spencer isn't really thinking when he walks into the bathroom. It's early in the morning and they leave for tour today, something in his mouth tastes like dead skunk, and his brain is operating at half-capacity at best due to the early hour of morning.

He's _aware _Brendon is showering in there, but it's not like _that _would have been the problem even if he were capable of thinking straight.

The problem isn't Brendon showering. The problem is Brendon _jerking off _in the shower.

And—duh, right? It's Tour Day, last call for shower jerk-off time—really, for almost _any _kind of private jerk-off time—until at least the first hotel night, which isn't scheduled to happen for almost a week. It's an obvious and time-honored tradition, and Spencer's only excuse for himself is that half his brain is still asleep, and the other half is already running last-minute inventories of all his bags and mentally tallying up underwear, so there isn't any brainpower left for being considerate about Brendon's masturbatory freedom.

In fact, he's actually _talking _as he walks into the bathroom, almost yelling to be heard over the sound of the spray, puttering around with his toothbrush and toothpaste and rambling like a douchebag about reminding Zack to pick up an extra case of Red Bull before they get to the bus, because Ian goes through that shit at three or four times the rate of reasonable human consumption.

And then he shoves his toothbrush into his mouth and turns around to talk directly to Brendon, and that's pretty much when he comes face-to-face, so to speak, with the problem at hand.

So to speak.

Brendon is standing stock-still, frozen in place with his hand still on his dick. His eyes are huge and startled, and his face is flushing redder than even the steam from the shower can really explain away, and his mouth is partially open and moving soundlessly, like he's desperately trying to think of something to say.

Spencer swallows a mouthful of toothpaste, chokes on it, and spins back around to face the mirror.

"Shit," he chokes out, when he can breathe again. "Dude, fuck—sorry, I'm sorry."

Brendon doesn't say anything. Spencer silently curses the plain-glass steam-free walls of the shower, and shoves his toothbrush back under the water to rinse the worst of the toothpaste globs off.

"I'm going," he says loudly, and spits into the sink. He's not even close to finished brushing his teeth, but he'll just take the toothbrush with him and use the kitchen sink, Christ. "I'm going, I'm sorry." He forces himself to laugh, but it's a tight, awkward sound. "Don't—uh. Don't let me stop you or anything, just. Uh. I'll get out of your way, and you just—go back to. What you were...doing. Okay! Okay, I'm out!"

Some part of his brain—he will never understand which part, specifically—makes him turn back to glance at Brendon as he fumbles with the doorknob.

Brendon is still standing there, frozen in place, staring at Spencer as Spencer leaves. His dick is still hard in his hand.

~

They laugh it off, uncomfortably, when Brendon finally emerges from the bathroom. Brendon doesn't quite meet Spencer's eyes, and Spencer's whole face feels warm with lingering low-level mortification. but it's all kind of stupid. They've spent a huge portion of their lives living together on _buses, _it's not like they should really have anything left to be prudish about. Spencer still maintains that he could pick out the jerking-off sounds of every single one of his bandmates—past, present, and temporary included—in a lineup with a blindfold on.

So, yeah. He doesn't usually have a _visual, _okay, but it's not like it's _new._

They make the necessary jokes and do the necessary innuendos, half-hearted and awkward. Brendon calls Spencer a dirty pervert voyeur, Spencer accuses Brendon of having a tiny shameful penis, and they pretty much leave it at that.

Spencer takes his turn in the shower, but doesn't jerk off. Somehow he just feels weird about it. He doesn't think about it any further than that.

And that's the end of it.

For two days.

~

  
It's another shower incident, embarrassingly enough. This time, the culprit is the locker-room style group shower in the venue after the show. Spencer and Brendon were waylaid by Zack to handle a super-quick post-show radio interview immediately after coming off-stage, so they're the last two into the shower, coming in right as Ian and Dallon are leaving.

They hurry as best they can—the water is barely better than lukewarm, and the room itself is drafty—and Spencer is in the middle of scrubbing his armpits when the door swings back open to the sound of Dallon's semi-hysterical giggling.

There isn't even time to turn and investigate before a freezing cold water balloon shatters right on Spencer's ass.

He yelps, whirling around just in time to take another one squarely in the chest, and skids across the wet tiles to duck behind Brendon without thinking.

"Motherfuckers_!"_ Brendon is shouting, half-curled over on himself and dripping shampoo everywhere.

Another balloon sails through the partially-open door, nailing Brendon straight in the top of the head and splashing freezing water over both of them.

"Oh, we are going to _kill you,_" bellows Spencer, curving semi-protectively over Brendon's exposed shoulders and upper back. It's the least he can do, since he's shamelessly using Brendon as a human shield.

"Uh," manages Brendon, sounding a little strangled. "Spence..."

He shifts awkwardly in Spencer's arms, and that's pretty much when Spencer figures out that he's curling forward over Brendon's half-bent, _naked _body, and his hands are on Brendon's _naked _hips, and—most mortifying of all—Spencer's _bare cock _is kind of...just dangling there against Brendon's ass.

He takes an abrupt step backward, dropping his hands away immediately—

—and gets clocked in the face with another icy missile from the doorway.

It probably wouldn't have knocked him over if he hadn't been scrambling so frantically to get away, but as it is, that's exactly what happens. Worse, Brendon actually tries to catch him, fails, and ends up getting pulled down right on top of Spencer.

Right. On top. Of _Spencer._

There has, Spencer realizes despondently, _literally _never been another moment in his life as completely humiliating as this one. He's flat on his back on a cold tile floor, stark fucking naked, with Brendon sprawled awkwardly on top of him, equally naked and half-straddling one of Spencer's thighs.

One last balloon comes sailing across the room, breaking somewhere on Brendon's back and making him squeak and jolt in a _really awkward way, _and Spencer doesn't even bother to throw him off—just squeezes his eyes shut and pretends that Brendon's cock didn't just drag halfway up the length of his thigh. That he didn't feel it _twitch._

The door finally shuts, and Brendon rolls away instantly, face flaming. "Oh my god," he says weakly.

Spencer gives in and looks at him. Shampoo is dripping down Brendon's face and shoulders. There's a piece of broken red balloon stuck in a clump of foamy hair, and Brendon looks like he wants to seriously _die._

For some reason, Spencer starts laughing.

He can't fucking help himself, honestly, it's just—who does this kind of shit even _happen _to? It's so fucking ridiculous and embarrassing and stupid and hilarious, and he just lays there laughing helplessly until Brendon can't help snickering too.

Eventually, they make it off the floor and finish their showers. They don't mention the thing with Brendon's dick and Spencer's leg, and they don't mention the thing with _Spencer's _dick and Brendon's _ass, _and they don't mention the entire absurd naked pratfall.

The only thing they talk about is revenge.

~

"I AM THE KING OF THE UNIVERSE," Brendon announces loudly the next day.

Spencer glances up from his book. He's reading in the front lounge, because Ian spent the whole morning bustling around shiftily and then disappeared into his bunk, and Spencer doesn't really want to know what's going on in there.

"What did you do?" he asks Brendon, because Brendon is standing there beaming at him expectantly, and if he doesn't ask, he'll never get any peace.

"I shaving-creamed every single thing in Dallon's duffle bag last night," Brendon reports with great satisfaction. "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, and that Lord's name is Brendon Motherfucking Urie."

"Die, blasphemer," Ian calls out cheerfully from the bunks.

Brendon throws the finger at the open doorway, but there's virtually no chance Ian actually sees him do it.

"Dude, Dallon is going to be _pissed,_" Spencer says, impressed in spite of himself.

Brendon grins. "He _is _pissed. I just watched Zack drag him off to a laundromat. Dallon almost got away twice, I'm pretty sure I just narrowly escaped death."

Spencer laughs, and makes a mental note to keep an eye on Dallon, just in case. "He deserved it."

"I know, right?" Brendon raises his voice deliberately, speaking toward the bunkroom. "Ian should be _very afraid _right now. One down, one to go!"

Ian pokes his head out into the lounge, crazy hair flying every which way. "Ian is not the one who should be afraid right now at all," he says primly. "Ian believes in preemptive strikes." He flashes a bright grin at Brendon. "Have fun finding the surprise I left you."

Brendon's grin falls right off his face.

~

By the time Spencer goes to bed, Brendon still has not discovered the source of Ian's "surprise." And not for lack of looking—he's been through every single thing in his own duffle bag and Spencer's too, just to be safe. He's investigated the coffeepot and all the food in the fridge labeled with Spencer or Brendon's names. He's torn the entire front lounge of the bus apart in search of hidden booby traps, and he's just starting the back lounge when Spencer gives up on him and retreats to his bunk.

He wakes up some indeterminate amount of time later to Brendon poking him repeatedly and forlornly in the back.

"Spence. Spence. Spence. Spence."

"Holy shit, Brendon, _what?"_ Spencer slurs, twisting himself up in his blankets while he tries to turn over. He kicks irritably at everything, and pries open bleary eyes to peer at Brendon.

Brendon manages to look pissed off and chagrined at the same time. "He shaving-creamed my bunk," he says glumly. "Under my blankets. Under my sheets, even." He sighs. "Can I sleep with you?"

Spencer starts laughing, and scoots over.

~

A massive pothole wakes Spencer up some time later. He's being half-smothered by Brendon's weight, he's so overheated he's actually sweating, and the way Brendon's body is draped over him has left his hard-on pressed firmly right against Brendon's hip.

Because Spencer lives in hell, Brendon chooses this moment to start squirming his way toward wakefulness. Squirmily.

"Brendon," Spencer grunts, trying to shift his hips out from underneath Brendon's. He stops that instantly; wriggling is _not helpful._ And _both _of them wriggling is _definitely _not helpful. "Brendon, fuck. Get—"

He cuts himself off abruptly as Brendon's restless shifting brings his own hard-on into direct contact with _Spencer's_ hip.

"Nnnn," Brendon mumbles incoherently, and then, "Spencer?"

The bus rolls over another pothole, and both of them inhale sharply.

"Sorry," mumbles Brendon, but he isn't _moving, _and when Spencer turns his head to look, Brendon is flushed and sleepy-eyed and just kind of _staring _at him in the darkness, and seriously, _he's not moving._

Spencer isn't moving either, and he has no fucking idea what that means.

Up front, Spencer can hear Zack talking quietly to somebody—probably the driver—about "turbulence." "This is fucking unbelievable," he says, just before the bus hits another deep hole. "They call this a fucking highway?"

Dallon is apparently awake and out front with Zack, because he says, "Fucking construction," in this really irritated voice, and then, "Oh, here we go again."

Spencer's eyes lock onto Brendon's, just as the bus rolls onto a stretch of rough road that keeps it bouncing and rocking for what feels like _fucking forever._ Brendon is chewing hard on his lower lip now, his face inches from Spencer's, and every slight bump and jostle of the road is magnified a hundred frustrating times in the miniscule shifting of cocks and hips. It's nowhere near enough pressure or friction to be anything more than a tease, but it's more than enough to make Spencer feel like the whole fucking world is turning upside down, because this is Brendon, and Brendon's _hip, _and Brendon's _dick, _and Brendon's fucking sharp little hitches of breath in the dark, and what in the hell are they _doing?_

He wants to shove Brendon off of him and out of the bunk, wants to hide his face in his pillow and pretend this never happened. Just like the shower never happened. Just like _neither shower ever happened._

But he also wants to grab Brendon's hips in both hands and yank him over until he's fully on top of Spencer, until their dicks line up side by side, wants to hold the pressure and weight of him against Spencer's cock and pray for all the potholes in the universe.

He's still honestly not sure which one he's going to do, when Zack says, "Jesus, fucking _finally,_" and Dallon says, "_Thank _you, fuck," and the road smooths out underneath the wheels.

Spencer doesn't want to think too hard about the simultaneous, sharp little exhales he and Brendon make at that, or how much they sound like sighs of disappointment.

They lay there for a long time before they manage to fall back asleep. Neither of them move their hips away.

~

It's been a long time since Spencer has actually experienced a show from the perspective of the pit.

It's not even his kind of show, honestly—hotel night just happened to coincide with one of their few free nights on tour, which just happened to coincide with some friend of a friend of Ian's little baby hardcore band doing a show at some grimy little venue a few blocks away from the hotel. Spencer's not all that impressed, honestly, and Brendon doesn't look like he really is, either.

They came to hang with Ian, but the crowd of writhing bodies has managed to scatter the group. Spencer can't even see _Zack _anymore, and it's pretty unusual to lose track of a guy Zack's size, no matter the crowd.

He's managed to hang onto Brendon, though, for all the good that's doing either one of them right now.

"WANT TO BAIL?" he yells, pressing his mouth almost directly against Brendon's ear to be heard over the deafening noise. Somehow, they've gotten shuffled over next to the speaker stacks. Spencer's afraid he's seriously going to go deaf.

Brendon makes a confused face at him, shaking his head and mouthing, _What?_ and then gets slammed into from behind and shoved hard up against Spencer's chest. Spencer rolls his eyes, grips Brendon's elbow, and starts trying to edge them both out of the crush of the crowd.

Unfortunately, that's the moment that the lead singer chooses to fling himself off the edge of the stage and into the crowd. There's a massive push inward from every direction, and Spencer and Brendon are swept along with it, stumbling and trying desperately to keep their feet. Brendon ends up with his back to the stage, crammed in tight against Spencer's chest, breath hot against Spencer's ear. Their feet are shuffling awkwardly around on the floor, one of Spencer's between both of Brendon's, and everybody is screaming and shoving and there are hands in the air all around them reaching out for the crowd-surfing singer, and it's absolutely nothing like last night in the quiet semi-privacy of Spencer's bunk, but all of a sudden that's all he can think of. Brendon's body, hot and close and jostling roughly against his own, and Spencer takes an elbow to the back of his head and just like that his head snaps forward, his face ending up buried in Brendon's neck.

Somehow, his arms end up around Brendon's waist, holding on tight, and he doesn't even remember putting them there, but he doesn't move away.

Just like last night. He _should _move away—or fuck, at least try to—but he _doesn't, _and just like last night, Brendon doesn't either.

Spencer's face burns. He lets the crowd bump them together again and again, maybe even helps it along a little, in little ways he'll never admit to later. He lets his foot shift forward until his entire leg is between Brendon's, and he lets his hips move easily with every little motion from the crowd, and he's fucking hard again—he's fucking hard for _Brendon—_in the fucking mosh pit at a fucking _hardcore show._ This is a bad idea on so many levels he can't even begin to count them all, but Brendon's hips are moving against his, too, just a little bit more than the writhing pit can account for, and Brendon's cock is hard against Spencer's thigh, and Spencer's heart is racing and his pulse is pounding and he doesn't even fucking _care _anymore how insane this is. He just doesn't want it to stop.

Brendon's head bounces with a rough shove from one side, and his lips brush over the shell of Spencer's ear, and Spencer thinks maybe he lingers there for a second or two too long for it to be an accident. Spencer's skin feel like it's on fire.

There's a loud yell of disappointment from the crowd as the singer gets dumped back onto the stage, and the crowd around them relaxes enough that they have no choice but to break apart.

They don't quite meet each other's eyes as they edge their way out toward the wall and around to get to the doors. Spencer focuses his attention on texting Zack that they're leaving—he won't be happy, but Spencer doesn't give a fuck—and neither of them speak, even once as they stumble out into the warm night air outside the club.

Brendon fumbles for a cigarette, and offers one to Spencer. Spencer takes it, and concentrates on inhaling and exhaling slowly while they walk the few blocks back to the hotel.

He's still fucking hard in his jeans. He's willing to bet Brendon is, too.

~

The ride in the elevator up to the room is filled with nameless tension. Spencer doesn't know what the fuck they're supposed to be doing right now—they didn't try to laugh this one off, there's no way they _could _have, but they haven't exactly _done _anything, either, and he's _still fucking hard, _and everything is just...fucked-up.

It only gets worse once they get to the room.

They're just—they're not _talking, _okay, even _Brendon _isn't talking, he's bouncing around everywhere on his toes and shooting a lot of sidelong glances at Spencer, and Spencer just wishes—

Well. He wishes something would _happen _to them again, that's what he wishes.

He wishes their hotel room was actually a bunk in a bus on the longest-ever highway construction zone. He wishes a writhing crowd of hardcore fans would come pouring out of the bathroom and turn their room into a mosh pit. He wishes Dallon and Ian would materialize with water balloons—anything, _anything _that would take the responsibility off of the two of them in this moment and still let something _happen, _because his entire body is thrumming with tension and Spencer is losing his _mind _with how many crazy things he suddenly wants, and Brendon is _right there _but also he's _Brendon, _and the pressure of this moment is just kind of too much to handle.

Brendon doesn't seem to have any more idea what to do than Spencer does. He bustles around the room a little—absent, distracted, meaningless activity—but he doesn't do any of the things he would normally do. He doesn't go in to take a shower. He doesn't call down for something ridiculous from room service, or even turn on the TV. He just...sort of bustles.

Spencer bustles too, mostly for lack of anything better to do, dropping his bag in the corner and turning back the bed and digging out his laptop and iPod and shaving kit. Stupid shit, he doesn't even _want _any of it, he just needs to be moving around so that he isn't just standing stock-still in the middle of the room, staring blankly at Brendon with a hard-on tenting out the front of his jeans.

If there's a little more edging around each other in tight spaces between the beds than is strictly necessary in a room the size of the one they've got—a little more bumping and shuffling and brushing together—it's impossible to say which of them is responsible for it.

Eventually, Spencer turns from kicking off his shoes and socks, and Brendon's got a pair of sleep pants tossed across the corner of his bed. He's not doing anything about it, just standing there staring at them, his face a little pink, chewing on his lower lip.

Spencer's breath catches, his eyes falling almost unconsciously to the front of Brendon's jeans, and yeah—Brendon's hard. Brendon is hard, and he can't change into his sleep pants without Spencer _seeing _it, and Spencer's pulse starts racing all over again as he stands there holding his breath, waiting to see what Brendon will do.

Brendon glances up at Spencer and their eyes catch and hold, but he still doesn't move.

"Okay," says Spencer. "Okay, fuck this," and steps right up close into Brendon's space, hesitating for barely a second before just going for it, just pulling Brendon forward until their bodies are flush, the way they were in the club, the way they almost, _almost _were in the bunk, and it's—

Brendon shudders all over, and it's like a floodgate comes open between his brain and his mouth. "Fuck," he mutters, "_Spencer_, holy shit, what the fuck are we..."

Spencer shifts his hips until they line up with Brendon's, and they both make sharp little sounds in their throat, and everything is kind of awkward and stupid and amazing, and Brendon's breath is hot on Spencer's lips, so Spencer kisses him.

It's wet, and messy, and kind of clumsy. They're both kind of instinctively trying to lead, and it's weird as fuck, but Spencer has seriously never been this fucking turned on in his life. He isn't sure which one of them collapses onto the bed, but he ends up on top of Brendon between Brendon's spread thighs, and Spencer is just kind of gasping against Brendon's neck and grinding down a lot, and it's rough and awkward and definitely not the smoothest he's ever been in his life, but he doesn't care and Brendon doesn't seem to care, either.

Brendon's still half-whispering, meaningless sex talk with his voice all low and rough in Spencer's ear, and Spencer figures out he's going to come from this an instant before it happens. He groans, loud and ragged, into Brendon's neck when it hits him, hips grinding down hard and then stilling in place while Spencer rides it out.

Brendon's voice gets desperate, just, _"Fuck, fuck—_" and his hips jerk up frantically for another second or two, and then he's coming too, and Spencer just kind of collapses on top of him and waits for one or both of them to freak the fuck out.

Weirdly, they don't.

~

Two hours later, they've both migrated to the other bed. Brendon is laying half-draped over Spencer again. His body is a long, warm, naked weight against Spencer's, and Spencer is tracing half-hearted circles against the skin of Brendon's back with one lazy finger.

They jerked each other off in the shower after the whole rubbing-off thing on the bed. Then they came back out, crawled under the sheets, and made out for awhile. They still haven't talked about any of it yet.

Spencer keeps waiting for one of them to say something, but it's just—it's weird, it's like all the panicky feelings from the last week are just _gone._ Probably not forever, Spencer doesn't even know what's going to happen when they wake up in the morning, but for the moment, he's kind of okay with not talking about it at all.

Brendon is dozing comfortably on Spencer's chest, and Spencer is sleepy and warm and relaxed.

He closes his eyes and decides to worry about the whole thing tomorrow.

~

Brendon wakes up before Spencer does, and the first thing Spencer is aware of in the morning is a hand sliding slowly up the inside of his thigh, and hot, wet suction against the skin of his neck.

He shivers, rumbling quietly in his chest, and arches his head to one side. Brendon mouths lazily up his throat, and Spencer spreads his thighs as Brendon's fingers wander higher.

"So," Brendon murmurs quietly, pressing his dick into Spencer's hip. "We're...we're _doing _this now, right?"

Spencer turns to look at him, bleary and incredulous, and starts laughing in spite of himself. "I hope so," he manages, and then Brendon's hand ghosts up over his balls and wraps around Spencer's cock, and words kind of don't seem quite so important for awhile.

~

And that's all they ever say about it, all they ever _have _to say about it. Brendon's bunk is still ruined from shaving cream, and Zack refuses to have anybody take care of it until the tour is over, so nobody thinks a single thing about Brendon crawling into Spencer's bunk every night. They don't advertise it in front of the guys—they keep the kissing and the groping to the relative privacy of their bunk and their hotel rooms, but they don't exactly actively try to hide it, either.

Zack catches on before Ian or Dallon, and only because he sees Spencer slide an absent hand down Brendon's back at the coffeepot one morning. Dallon figures it out when he asks Brendon to trade rooms with Ian one night so that the two of them can have some kind of epic Guitar Hero battle and Brendon beams right at Spencer as he refuses, and Ian doesn't ever figure _anything _out until the very last night of tour, when Dallon teases Spencer and Brendon about how glad they must be to be going home.

"Oh...shit, _seriously?"_ is his reaction, when he finally clues in, and then he laughs for about an hour and a half.

Brendon and Spencer ignore him.

Spencer still isn't sure what this thing is they're doing—they don't have a name for it and he isn't really sure they need one, but there's definitely nothing casual about it. They share a bed every single night, and they'll be going home to the same house once this is over, so there's no doubt they'll continue to sleep together back at home. That's probably pretty intense for something so new and foreign to both of them—they haven't even tried full-out sex yet, Spencer isn't ready to figure that shit out on the road. He wants some uninterrupted time, and a whole lot of space, and unfettered access to Google and lube before they start fucking around with more than the occasional hand or blow job.

But it's kind of just—_easy._ It's easy, and it's fun, and it's kind of amazing, and Spencer is pretty okay with just letting it be.

~

The first morning back at home, after the tour is over, Spencer wakes up alone in bed, and staggers to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Brendon is in the shower. Brendon is _jerking off _in the shower.

Deja vu makes Spencer start laughing in spite of himself, and he carefully finishes brushing his teeth before turning around and leaning against the counter. He crosses his arms, watching Brendon shamelessly.

"Don't let me stop you," he says, grinning.

Brendon rolls his eyes and opens the shower door, reaching out with one wet arm to yank Spencer over and inside with him.

"I've got a better idea," he says, and reaches for Spencer's dick.

"Yeah," Spencer breathes, tugging Brendon's head in for a kiss with one hand, and reaching for Brendon's cock with the other. "Yeah, you're right. This is definitely better."

~

END

~

__   
**(Wishing To Be) The Friction in Your Jeans**   



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